


Trapped In A Box

by AisdaMira13



Category: Marvel, Marvel (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Anxiety, Civil Unrest, Consensual Violence, Damanged Goods, Depression, Domestic Violence, Domestication, Emotional Manipulation, Emotional/Psychological Abuse, F/M, Manipulation, Sadness, Things Dark and Sinister, Unspoken words, baggage, lying, unhappy endings
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-10-25
Updated: 2016-10-25
Packaged: 2018-08-27 00:05:02
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,305
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8379706
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AisdaMira13/pseuds/AisdaMira13
Summary: Slight AU. Post-Avengers 2, Pre-Civil War. Nick Fury has asked that you live in Bucky in order to assess his capacity to be re-introduced to the population. Your first major assignment and it's babysitting a grown man. Some times it's great, other times not so much. Can either of you emerge unscathed and in one piece?





	

This isn’t your first assignment and it certainly isn’t your most preferred, but with the recent happenings, you understand the necessity. 

After S.H.E.I.L.D. had been infiltrated by Hydra, the organization was temporarily in disarray and disbanded. Nick Fury had done his best to retain what he could, despite his promise to Captain America, but the damage was extensive. But who would protect the world with growing threats of powers beyond the Asgardians and this galaxy was a real concern that was not going away.

Realizations were had by all governments that organizations like S.H.E.I.L.D. were more than necessary: they were vital. To keep up appearances and downplay rumors of a takeover, the name S.H.E.I.L.D. is still utilized to breed a comforting familiarity with the public. Explaining why and how the beloved Captain of America had become a fugitive had been enough of a catastrophe to manage. Fury figured this would have been to much.

So here you stand, waiting for your assignment to arrive. And as if on cue, in walks Captain America with the Winter Soldier in tow: your assignment. 

A full year since the incident with Hydra had passed before the ex-assassin was found wondering the streets of Rio de Janeiro. A random inspection picked him up and got a hit on Interpol; noting him as an extreme high-risk prisoner, the Brazilian authorities deported him back to the states immediately. S.H.E.I.L.D. picks him up and here you are to monitor his transition. 

“Specialist.” Steve Rogers stops before you. “I have someone I’d like you to meet: James Buchanan, a.k.a. ‘Bucky’ Barnes. Bucky, this is”—but the Captain is interrupted by his former comrade.

“What are you?” 

Feeling suddenly unjustly scrutinized and not trying to be found wanting, you take a more aggressive stance, folding your arms and glowering at the man who you would make to regret his impudence.

“Well, firstly, I’m a woman,” you say. “May not have been around many recently, but how I come is pretty standard.” You catch the corners of his mouth twitch in amusement.

“Secondly,” you continue, “I’m your guard. I’ve been assigned to you to make sure you’re…acclimated appropriately to S.H.E.I.L.D’s standards. I am to keep you company and watch you 24/7, taking note of any unfavorable…traits that Hydra may have impressed upon you.”

“So…they send a lap dog to babysit me? Tell me, Agent of S.H.E.I.L.D., what you plan to do should I not take kindly to this arrangement? Did they give you authorization to kill me? Do even have the facility to do so?” His eyes challenge something within you to retort and not back down. It takes every muscle fiber in your body to not advance and put this man in his place. Trained assassin, be damned. You didn't work your way up the ranks to be bad mouthed by some ex-Hydra slag.

You clench your jaw tightly. Taking the high road of not being witness to a sudden catastrophe, the good Captain rests a heavy hand on the shoulder of his comrade. “Hopefully it won’t come to that, Buck.”

The Captain and Bucky move past you; Steve throws you an apologetic look and you nod in acknowledgement. 

“That your new gig?” a voice asks. 

Tony Stark emerges from the sea of agents dressed to the nines, sunglasses and all, bag of food in hand. You smile at his classy getup, pondering to yourself which of his many sports car he drove here. Tony had a light to him that could somehow always put you in a good mood.

“Can you believe the nerve of this guy? And I have to follow him around?” You shake your head in the sudden resentment of this assignment.

“Could be worse,” mulls Tony, shoveling some popcorn in his mouth.

“How?”

“You could be tormented with incredible genius and stellar good-looks.”

“Are you saying I’m not good looking?” You pause. “And how would that be worse?”

“Because then you’d be me.” He smiles midchew before adding, “And you’re gorgeous, darling. Be grateful it’s only good looks.”

“Thanks,” you deadpan. “You always know just what to say.”

Tony pours the rest of the popcorn kernels into his mouth and circles about you. “It’s a gift. I gotta speak to Fury about a thing, and you gotta get to work. Play nice. Have fun with the other kids.”

“Yeah…. Work.” Fuck. This is gonna be a long assignment.

***

The first few days are just to be expected. Bucky is in constant examinations, both physical and mental. You are just an escort and personal guard to the technicians attending to him, making sure he doesn’t get too out of hand.

Truth be told, you are on constant edge following Bucky through the facility. Every sudden stop he makes to gaze with an impressed curiosity at all the techy and science-y machines that re in development makes you hover a ready hand over your weapon. 

In the back of your mind you wonder if he is gathering intel. For whom? Hydra is dead. Maybe Russia, old-Soviet enthusiasts? Regardless, you make sure you note when and where and what he witnesses.

Physical examinations are at the height of your tension. Having so many techs near such a potentially lethal man keeps your epinephrine and cortisol levels high. Such indispensible workers and irreplaceable equipment would be an irreparable lost to S.H.E.I.L.D. if anything erupted. Every new test scenario raises your hormone levels just a bit.

With the constant physicality of the exams, however, you have gotten very good and picking up the subtle muscle twitches the Winter Soldier displays when gearing up for a movement. For any full arm movement, his fingers tremble slightly; for any full upper body movement, his bicep pulses in anticipation, to prepare for lunging, walking, kicking, running, his whole torso tenses with readiness. You have memorized his full body and it is glorious.

Comparatively, Captain America was leaner, but the Winter Soldier is definitely meaner. The same muscles that serum had helped develop in both of them were more lethal than one could have accounted for, thicker and denser. Bucky was still villainous in your eyes but you could see how he gave the Captain a run for his money.

That metal arm, though, gives you trouble. No musculature resides to give you a clue or understanding of its intention. Just a shiny manufactured death arm that has a measured lethality of about 3000 psi – more than the bite of a crocodile and in league with that of a mechanical baler. So much potential destruction in so attractive a thing. Curious.

Nighttime is also particularly difficult for you. Granted your sleeping arrangements featured many highly-trained, highly specialized S.H.E.I.L.D. agents in close proximity, the word assassin keeps running through your mind every time sleep dares to caress you. And the lack of sleep has made you tenser.

When the first rounds of tests for the week conclude, you breath a heavy sigh of relief at the completely peaceful resolution that you had not predicted, yet hoped for. Maybe they would swap you with another agent for a day or two for a job well done, give you some R&R. God, you could use some good sleep.

You and Bucky are standing in the small arboretum in the very center of the Armory Wing of the compound, an occasional stop on your way to the lunch hall. The sunlight shines through the glass roof some twenty stories above: it is just past noon. Testing has finished early and you are now hungry. Craving food, you open your mouth to yell to your task that it was chow time, but stop. 

Bucky stands in the very center of the meadow, facing you with his eyes closed, face basking in the light. So serene he looks, so benevolent. You wonder when the last time had been when he had enjoyed the sunlight. A sudden pang of pity stabs at you at the realization that he may not have the memory of ever doing so.

You take the time to take in the sight of him. The light does wondrous things to his features: have his cheekbones always been so chiseled, has his chin always been so defined? You realize now that this is the first time you've seen him without his Winter Soldier mask; maybe not the first time you've seen him, but the first time you have looked, really looked, at the assassin’s face.

He is gorgeous. A top contender based on your preferences of tall, dark, and handsome. The unique characteristics of his face melding perfectly into one another are a thing of beauty beyond compare. It is such a flawless masculinity, such effortless manliness. And that is to say nothing of his body.

Sure, memorizing the exceptional movements of his body had been technical and professional at first, you needed to know when he wanted to move, but as the week has passed, and your familiarity has bred a trusted understanding, you begin to appreciate this trained killer for the purpose in which he was made.

After decommissioning his standard master assassin attire, S.H.E.I.L.D. had outfitted him with their own played down variation: a regulation grey shirt with the agency’s letters on it, complete with black cargo pants. Or maybe they just let him keep his from before. Either way, the bottom line was: they are too tight. Or just tight enough.

This man is a walking display of trained lethality, venerable elegance, and undeniable allure; that sits just fine with you.

“You’re relieved,” comes a voice from behind you, jostling you from your thoughts. 

Captain America enters the arboretum clad in his uniform, shield and all. “I am?”

“Temporarily. Fury has some additional information for your next assignment.” You nod in understanding. “How is he doing?” Steve motions to Bucky, who was still absorbing the sun.

“Calm…at the moment. No incidences thus far. How much does he remember?”

Steve signs heavily. “I’m not sure… He didn't kill me, so he has some memory of a past, but if he remembers anything about himself, it remains a mystery.”

“I almost feel bad for him. To realize that you've been fed lies for all the life you remember, made into an assassin, attempted to murder indiscriminately, and are now a government test subject for your own country…must be tough. I can’t imagine.”

The Captain says nothing and you realize you’ve probably put your foot in your mouth.

“I’m sorry,” you say, “I forget that he was once your best friend.”

“He still is.”

Damn. Twice your bad. The heavy emotion in his voice lets you know this conversation should probably end. Good job.

You salute the Captain and begin to make your way toward the director’s office when you feel him grab your arm. He doesn't look at you, he just looks at the ground blankly but you feel the sadness within him.

“I’m not sure what Fury has in store for you but I have a feeling it pertains specifically to Bucky.” He leans closer to you, looking onward at his friend. You can see the shine of emotion in his eye and you feel something in your heart break. “He has lost his way with people. How he is, what Hydra has done to him…it isn’t who he is.” 

His eyes focus directly on you and you feel the sudden weight of the cosmos upon you. “I need you to remember that he needs us, he needs people… Just…whatever Fury asks you to do, don't give up on him.”

“Y-Yes, Captain. I promise.”

***

“With all due respect, Director, this is bullshit.”

Director Fury flicks his eye toward you at your tone. “I understand you’re upset, agent, but this is a necessary step in determining his liability.” 

“So you want me to live with him in some pseudo Truman Show remake?”

“It’s just an apartment, agent, and only for six months. It’s in the middle of Manhattan and S.H.E.I.L.D. agents will be on standby monitoring the both of you. We need to see how he responds to normal interactions, casual stimulation versus the expected litany of bureaucratic tests and examinations. We need to see if he can function normally.”

“Is there no psych test for normalcy? What about Agent Romanov?”

“Given their history, putting the two of them in close proximity of one another for an extended period of time would be unwise.” Fury stands, circling around his desk to stand directly in front of you. “I read through all promising candidate files; there is no one that better suited for this than you. I need your expertise on this. Please.”

You think over on the realism of getting away with turning down the director and realize that your pride isn’t worth the possibility of endless months of paperwork. This was probably the best excitement you would get for a while. Even though, this situation was almost too unreal for you to fathom.

“Very well. I accept the assignment. When do we begin?”

“Immediately.”

And so immediately it happens. 

They stick you in the back of the transport van like you are one of the criminals. At least they cuff Bucky with specialized cuffs: your life apparently has some significance. He sits across from you and stares at you, blatantly, curiously. This trip better not take long, you hope.

Ignoring his gaze as best you can, you instead focus on cracking your knuckles and rubbing your palms till they hurt, still annoyed at this whole…thing. Fury, S.H.E.I.L.D., and the Winter Soldier. This had to be some sort of sick joke.

A domestic partnership. With James Buchanan Barnes. Ex-Hydra asset, old friend of Steve Rogers, and newly adopted pet of S.H.E.I.L.D. For science. God Himself could not have thought of a more ridiculous scenario. For six goddamn months.

It isn’t as if you aren’t accustomed to living with a soldier: you lived at the S.H.E.I.L.D. compound, in the barracks, constantly surrounded by agents. Why was this prospect so unimaginable to you? Cooking dinner, eating together, socializing. With a killer. Alone. Intimately. For what end?

“For science,” you scoff, putting your face in your hands.

“You know,” comes the voice you realize you are going to have to get accustomed to, “you should really lighten up. I’m probably the best assignment you will ever get.” Arrogance.

That’s it. Rules need to be established. Now. Before you think of what to say, you mouth speaks for you: “Shut the fuck up, you unbelievable shitmonger. This assignment isn’t going to be a vacation for either of us. I am in charge of this duo: you do what I say, when I say it. My career will not hinge on you. So keep your mouth shut, your thoughts to yourself, and don’t fuck with me.” Harsh? Maybe but necessary.

The smile that consumes his visage is enough to challenge your resolve; the genuine laughter that follows is almost enough to break it. How does he do that, create that aggravating beauty? “Yes, ma’am…” Several seconds pass before you hear him mumble “shitmonger” and laugh again.

The ride is quiet the rest of the way and you are grateful for the time to think. Fuck, fuck, fuck. You remember what Captain Rogers had asked you to do, the importance of people to Bucky. How are you to be the person he needs to remember what friends are for when this situation is less than favorable?

You’re being selfish, you chide to yourself. This isn’t about you, this isn’t about your level of peace or happiness – this is beyond you, it’s about saving a man’s life, recapturing his soul.

Reflecting on the truths you've uncovered, you feel a very heavy weight on your chest at the complete cunt you were some twenty minutes ago. You are going to have to do some serious damage control, but not just yet but you aren’t ready to swallow that pill so soon.

You look over at your company: Bucky is resting his head against the van, eyes closed, just as peaceful as he was in the arboretum, only he is so much closer to you now, and his beauty is even more striking. Such a timeless magnificence, so much character in his face, you speculate how much of his own story he knows, if he wants to know at all.

Who is the man Steve Rogers wants back so badly? Would he be funny, charming, classy, like the men of his era were? Could he be all those things again; did he want to be? 

Who was the real Bucky Barnes? You would find out if it killed you because you owed it to Steve, but above all, it was owed to Bucky.

The van stops and engine quiets down: you have reached your destination. 

A small troupe of militarized agents accompanies you and your new roommate to the fifteenth floor of a high-class high-rise. Apartment or penthouse, you wonder. Craving of a larger space with which to displace yourself from Bucky, you hope for the latter. Yet the thought of costly expenditures should anything unfortunate happen does cross the back of your mind.

When you arrive, your hope is realized. The elevator door opens onto a spacious and thrilling penthouse complete with a floor-to-ceiling windows, new furniture and impressive accommodations. An expansive living space and an Ikea ready kitchen await your defilement patiently. Across the kitchen and living room, the first bedroom door is ajar and you can see it has the same full-length windows.

Down the hall is a bathroom worthy of Tony Stark himself, featuring an all-inclusive Jacuzzi with a full-wall mirror positioned just behind it. The floor is marble and the sink is made of porcelain. It is like the washroom of the gods, comprising itself of a welcoming mixture of darks and gold edging.

The second bedroom waits at the back of the penthouse but it isn’t like the other: the door is closed and locked with a keypad. You trace the numbers with an inquisitive hand. Why would they put this here and not mention it to you? What would you need a keypad-locked room for?

You return to the main foyer and find Bucky standing just inside the elevator, a pile of duffel bags at his feet, likely full of clothing, specifically chosen for S.H.E.I.L.D. for this little experiment of theirs. One of the team drops the cuff keys off with you and they depart without a word.

“Check out the place yet?” you ask, fixing to remove the cuffs. 

Bucky says nothing but just stares at you with steely eyes. You remove the cuffs and watch as his metal arm massages his wrist. And then you see it: the tension in his upper body build, so subtle you almost miss it, so familiar you know what follows. His bicep pulses with anticipation and you brace, knowing that you cannot hope to block his super-human speed.

A punch, made with his right hand, lands and hits you squarely in your sternum, sending you flying across the room with impressive velocity. The landing almost knocks the remaining air from your lungs but you quickly regain yourself and your footing, taking a moment to cough, spitting some blood into your hand.

You smile. He had to break sometime.

And so it begins.

**Author's Note:**

> This is a long neglected head-egg I've had. Not sure how it'll go but am curious to see. Leave all the comments you'd like! Thanks :)


End file.
